I don’t really do stuff like this. “This” meaning “start blogs & post exorbitantly personal pictures, poems, & other various tangible pieces of myself on the internet.” Until recently—the last several years, I guess. Damn social media. And really, the actual creation of such posts is nothing so novel to me, only the additional leap of sharing them with “the world.”

The few people who are closest to me would say I am generally a private person. This, friends, is true. I do not know if I have ever felt like I have revealed the full depth & array of my colors to any one person. I don’t think I really know how; I feel like I have so much going on inside me all at once, all the time. It feels like I can barely contain it all sometimes, or even begin to express it in a way that wouldn’t make me seem completely bipolar. I’m not bipolar, I don’t think.

While I’m rather awful at communicating in a consistent & real way with other people, I am quite the expert at pouring my guts out to non-people & do this whenever possible; I talk in endless & sometimes nonsensical ways about philosophy with the trees, whisper my most precious mysteries to the grass, & send a constant stream of confessions to God as He watches me through the sun & stars.

Anyway, here I am with the compulsion that I have always had: to fill blank spaces with reflections of my imaginings. Only this space is no ordinary blank space, with the usual boundary lines & limitations. No, this is a canvas I created from nothing—as if there were not already enough places in this big, beautiful world for me to spill my overflow of thought & emotion onto—& it is virtually unending! Virtually… see what I did there?

In other words, I have opened myself up to a whole new realm for my compulsion to sink its roots into & run wild, having infinite room to grow.

But why? Why do I even have this compulsion? Why is it never satisfied? Why must I always begin again, writing & writing? Why do I incessantly record my futile thoughts in semipermanent ways? There are genuinely no thoughts I have ever had or written that are really new. Surely realizing that would dishearten my artistic flame & kill the compulsion altogether. (I am quite sure every writer or artist has had this thought at some time or another, thus, further proving my point).

But, no. In an unquenched defiance of myself, I continue to litter my nonsense onto the world.

So still I ask why. I ask myself this often. I suppose it is reason enough to say that I find peace in writing; giving in to the compulsion is soothing. It calms my frantic brain & restless soul. I think it is because I want to believe that someday this will all mean something. The cumulation of all my ponderings & revelations has to amount to something more than just giving me a temporary, day-to-day satisfaction, right?

Maybe one day when… one of my future children stumbles upon an old dusty diary, opens its pages, & finds solace in words of her mother—when she is older & has her own darknesses, her own thrills & joys. Or one day when I… cease to be alive. I guess I want to leave this place knowing that my inner self does not disappear with my physical existence, forever unknown to everyone & everything in this lifetime except for God & the pages I scribble on day in & day out.

It gets lonely, feeling that only the Sky truly knows you. Writing this now, I guess I am feeling like I want myself heard. It may be long after I am gone, but oh! to finally be fully understood & sympathized with! I can barely even imagine such a thing. Do some people really achieve that kind of miraculous freedom in this life? Extroverts, probably, ces salauds… 

I still would say that I write now not for others to know me but for me to know myself. I am still trying to figure out I want out of life & who I am trying to be—I love so many things, want to learn & experience everything I possibility can—& that is quite OK.

Something I have learned to take to heart: every day is a new beginning, a chance to be free, to live, & to enjoy this glorious human experience.

Life is experience, is it not? And, yes, in those experiences, there is both joy & suffering. There are more times than I’d like to admit when I’ve let the “suffering” part steal away the joy. But whenever the shadows of sadness creep over my soul, I try to remember how beautifully complex the human experience is, how endlessly fascinating the human mind is in every facet. I try remember that life is too big & brilliant, full of too much wonder & mystery, to ever let the sadnesses of this experience pull me so far down again.

And, as previously mentioned, something inside me tells me that all of this is really going to mean something someday if I just keep having experiences, good & bad, to write about.

Until then, I try to arise in the morning with this thought: “Chaque jour est pour moi un nouveau départ. Each day is for me a new beginning. Today I will be better.



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